Snowy Streets
by Doors
Summary: Hermione, an Auror, is sent back to Tom Riddle's youth in order to study him. To find out what makes him tick. It's for the purpose of writing on the Darkest period of Wizarding history, and Hermione is sure she can handle it. The only rule is that she mustn't be seen - which is difficult when she's the only other person there.


**Note:** Written for the Guilty Pleasure Fic Exchange for whirlwinds of watercolours. Sorry it is so late! The characters would not co-operate, and I've never written either of them before. This is a pairing I have no experience with, but I hope it turned out OK!

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What had happened had happened. That was the law of time. Hermione understood that – perhaps better than anyone – and before she had begun the journey back to Tom Riddle's early life (before Voldemort, perhaps when there was still a little good left in him) she had been lectured thoroughly on how it was pertinent that she _stay away_ from the man. The mission, if it could be called such a thing, was merely to observe. Not to draw attention to herself. Getting too close to Riddle would result in time attempting to right itself and possible grievous harm to the unfortunate time traveller. Hermione knew all of this, and she knew it well.

Not that the words of advice from her superiors at the Ministry of Magic did her much good when she materialised three feet behind Riddle in an empty Hogsmeade street.

She thought for a moment that he didn't notice her – it was snowing, after all, and the eerie silence that accompanied the snow was hanging in the air. She was about to slink into the nearest shop doorway – it looked like a bookshop, and was later to pass into the hands of one Madam Puddifoot – when he turned. He seemed to have sensed her there.

He looked her up and down with eyes that were too dark to really be called any colour, though Hermione could see behind them the red that they would become, and she saw in his eyes the ghosts of the people he would kill, and it took all her self-restraint to remain silent, to clench her jaw, and not to pull from her pocket the want that her fingers were curled around.

_Observe, Hermione_, she thought, and tried to think of Riddle as lost, young soul.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the skin on the back of her neck prickled. "You weren't there a moment ago."

"Yes, yes, I was," said Hermione, in a voice that was much higher and much faster than the one she usually spoke in. "I just came out from that – that bookshop, as a matter of fact."

Riddle regarded her with some distaste. "And who are you?" he asked again. "You look to be my age. I've never seen your face at Hogwarts."

"No, of course you haven't," snapped Hermione. "I attended Beauxbatons. It's in France." She and Kingsley had discussed what might have happened had she happened across Riddle accidentally. They were both aware that it might have been a possibility, though they had both been hoping that he would take no notice of one more young witch in the crowd. Still, the less he knew about her, the better, as far as everything was concerned – Kingsley had trusted Hermione to invent her own new identity.

"I know where Beauxbatons is," said Riddle, sounding mildly offended. "But that doesn't answer my question.

"I'm Victoire," squeaked Hermione. "Victoire Delacour."

"I can't say I'm familiar with the family name."

"You wouldn't be," said Hermione, "it's French."

Riddle smirked, and Hermione attempted to force her own lips into a little smile. It wouldn't do any good to seem too cold towards him – what reason would she have for that?

"You have an impeccable accent."

"I had a good teacher."

Riddle smiled a little, and looked about him, as if to check if there was anyone around, and Hermione's fingers tightened around her wand. Riddle took a step towards her, and she flinched. He looked a little taken aback, and she smiled apologetically, but did not relax.

"Victoire," said Riddle, rather softly, "would you like to come and get a Butterbeer with me?" He tilted his head slightly in the direction of the Hog's Head.

Hermione blinked at him. This scenario had not come up in their preparations. "Oh, um, no, thank you," she improvised. "I have... work to do, lots of work – at home, you see, and I was just visiting this bookshop to... research. But I shall leave now. It was very nice to meet you."

"You're not scared of me, are you?" said Riddle, and he sounded a little sad, and confused. "I didn't mean to be so sudden. I do apologise." It was an act, of course, Hermione knew that. He was very good, by all accounts, of making people think that he was on their side. "You needn't be. Don't feel you have to stay very long. I'm leaving early tomorrow, in any case. For Albania. I ask only a moment of your time."

Hermione wondered if it would be worth breaking the laws of time to curse Riddle so that she could escape, but considering what he had just said, if he really was leaving for Albania tomorrow, then she had arrived a little later than they had estimated back at the ministry. He was no longer at school, and if she was to continue researching his psychology – well, it would be difficult to follow him around Albania without him noticing. Perhaps she could travel there with him, and then slip away before he got anything done that had gone into the history books. That shouldn't cause any paradoxes at all... _Not that paradoxes are, strictly speaking, possible_, she reminded herself. Still, if she were to accompany him, then it would do no good to seem standoffish.

"Of course," she said, and took a step forward, pulling her cloak tighter around her front with her hands still in the pockets, still armed and at the ready. "Only a moment, mind."

Riddle smiled, but his eyes were dark, and Hermione shivered as she followed him through the snowy streets.


End file.
